Lighthouse Horror Podcast - 3 Grocery SCARY Stories | Compilation

Episode Date: May 9, 2026

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My name is Jason, and I used to think I was going to save the planet. You know the type. Public School Eco Club president wore a recycled bottle hoodie for two years, yelled at people who didn't separate their trash. That was me. I used to collect rainwater in a second-hand fish tank just to water my tiny balcony garden. I thought every little thing counted. I still do, kind of.

I went to school for environmental science. Four years of soil reports, carbon mass. and professors who wore trail shoes to class. I was going to work for a nonprofit. Live out of a van if I had to. Protest pipelines. Get arrested for the right reasons. Instead, I spent most of last year organizing spreadsheets for a recycling firm

that didn't even recycle half the time. They just sorted waste for someone else to throw away more efficiently. I quit after eight months, told myself it was temporary. graduation was a blur. All my friends were talking about internships, fellowships, next steps. I was smiling for pictures and pretending I had a plan. I didn't expect anybody from my family to show up. Most of them were too far away or too old to travel.

But just after they called my name and I walked across the stage, I saw her in the crowd. My grandmother, Miss Hazel, purple church hat, sunglasses big smile like she'd been there the whole time after the ceremony we sat under a tree while people packed up around us she handed me an envelope with two hundred dollars and told me i'd done well enough for now then she said come learn the family business i thought she meant real estate or insurance maybe one of those city jobs my cousins liked a name drop when they wanted to sound like they were doing it. something respectable. I never really asked what grandma did for work. Not properly.

I had a vague memory of a corner shop from when I was little. The kind of place was sticky floors and too many smells competing for attention. Bread, bleach, beans, old sugar. I remembered getting scolded once for knocking over a jar of something that definitely wasn't meant for kids. There was always a line, too. People waited for kids. canned goods, produce, bags of rice. Some of them look tired. Some didn't quite look like people.

That was Grandma's shop in Harlem. She called it Marva's Market in Goods, like it was just another mom-and-pop bodega on the block. But it wasn't. Turns out, she sells groceries to monsters. That part took me a while to understand. bothered to hide it from me, but no one bothered to explain it either. Grandma's never been big on explanations. She always figured, if you were old enough to ask, you were old enough to see for yourself. The shop runs like any other place during the day, collared greens and crates out front, coffee by the gallon behind the counter, a stack of lottery tickets next to the register. But once the sun goes down, something changes.

A door opens in the back. An actual hidden door behind an old bookshelf. And the shop becomes something else entire life. That's the real business. Roots and jars. Bones and paper. Candles with handwritten labels. Herbs you don't find at bodegas unless you know how to ask.

There's a back room that smells like smoke and smoke. salt and cinnamon, and every shelf feels like it's been there a hundred years. Some of them probably have. Grandma's a witch, a real witch. Not the costume kind, or the weird Etsy people who sell self-branded tea. She's the kind that learned everything from her mother, who learned it from hers, and so on and so forth. Old southern root work passed down through hands. hands and lots of stories by the stove. Grandma is who people go to when they need a problem solved, the supernatural way. I grew up around it, holidays spent sweeping the floor, wrapping bundles, writing labels,

but I was never taught what anything meant. Grandma kept me just far enough outside the circle to stay safe. But, now that I'm grown, she says it's time to learn. She says the shop's going to be mine someday, and I need to know what I'm inheriting. So here I am. Six months in. Learning the ropes. Watching my grandmother light candles and mix oils like it's no big deal.

Helping werewolves pick shampoo. Ringing up ghost customers who leave payment in old coins that melt if you stare too long. It's a lot. But I'm starting to get the hang of it. Still, I'm getting ahead of myself. We can talk about all that later. There's more you should know about Grandma and the shop. More importantly, the shop's familiar.

Salem. He's a great cat with a bad attitude and a long memory. Nobody told me his full story, but people like to talk. And over time, I've heard enough to piece some of it together. The rumor is that he used to be a wizard. He was the arrogant, powerful type, who thought rules didn't apply to him. At some point, he pissed off an all-powerful enchantress, and she turned him into a cat for the next thousand years. No one knows how long ago that was.

When I asked a grandma once, she just said, he's not halfway through yet. Salem doesn't like talking, but he'll get his point across some other way. He'll knock over jars if you forget to feed him. he'll disappear for hours when you need him most and show up later looking smug about it. He likes to sit on the highest shelf in the back room where the herbs are stored just out of reach. Grandma named him Salem as a joke, which he clearly didn't find funny. I only found out later. She was talking about the black cat from that old witch sitcom from the 90s.

The shop itself is called Hazel's Marketing Goods. It sits on the corner of 137th and Malcolm X, right between a barber shop and a storefront church. Looks like any other Harlem bodega. Dusty produce crates out front. Neon open sign in the windows. Bell that rings when the door swings too wide. You can buy soap, cereal, canned vegetables, frozen waffles, paper towels, batteries, toothpaste, you know, the usual stuff. But that's just during the day.

after 8 p.m., we close the front and open the back, not to the alley, but to a different part of the building. There's a bookshelf in the office. Grandma keeps her favorite book on it. An old battered hard copy of Frankenstein on the spine. If you pull it out and turn it just right, the back panel opens and leads to a narrow hallway. At the end of that hallway is the nightshy shop. That's where things change. The walls are lined with wooden shelves.

The floor is stone. The ceiling hangs low and warm, and the air smells like cinnamon, smoke, and copper. Every jar is labeled. Even the ones containing eyeballs. Every candle is handmade. There are roots wrapped in cloth, powders and sealed tins, bones tied with string, and bundles of earth. herbs that don't grow anywhere I've ever studied. There are oils that shimmer like motor fluid,

and little red flannel bags sewn shut with black thread. Grandma's shop serves Harlem's supernatural crowd, the ones that live tucked between the cracks, old southern bloodlines that go back generations, werewolves with tired eyes and careful manners, which is from Louisiana, with mud still under their nails, river spirits who drag muck all over the floor, but still have the audacity to barter. Every so often, a boo hag comes through, looking for coffee beans and gluten-free bread. Sirens from the Hudson Valley pass through on their way south, always asking for salt and to back. You get the idea. Most of what I do involves stocking shelves and labeling jars. I wipe down the counter every night and restock the candles when we run low. When grandma's knees

don't hurt, she lets me help her brew things I can hardly stand the smell of. And through it all, Salem watches. I've been working here close to six months now, and trust me, I have stories that'll keep curious people like you up all night. So go on. Pull up a chair. Pour yourself some of Grandma's famous carrot tea. If you can handle the kick. We have time.

Let me tell you how it all started. My very first day in the shop. I remember it like it was yesterday. Grandma picked me up from the train station herself. I offered to grab a cab, but she said no one was since paid money to get lost that deep in Harlem. And besides, she had errands to run. She pulled up in an old blue Buick that rumbled like had been hexed into staying alive. When I opened the door, there was a full sack of yams in the front seat. She told me to hold it on my lap and not ask questions. That was my first job, I guess,

yam security. We rode in silence for a while. Then she asked if I was hungry. I said I'd eaten on the train, which was true, but it didn't stop her from handing me a brown paper bag with two hot rolls and a square of cornbread wrapped in foil. I didn't say no. You don't turn down, Grandma's food. Not if you know what's good for you. When we got to the corner of 137th and Malcolm X, she pulled into a spot like it belonged to her. Probably did. The shop looked just like I remembered from when I was a kid. Narrow red awning, windows taped with paper signs, old handwritten hours. Two milk crates were holding up a display of overripe tomatoes.

Well, this is it. Hazel's Market. Been mine since before you had teeth, she said. Inside, it smelled like floor wax and black paper. The place was tight, with rows of narrow shells. packed full of groceries. Most of it was regular stuff. Bread, rice, cereal,

cleaning supplies, canned goods. A few shelves leaned to one side, but none had fallen yet. A little bell jingled when we came in, and the air felt warmer somehow. She gave me a tour like it was any old job. First, the basics. Register in the front.

Broom in the back, break table next to the ice machine, even though she didn't like people sitting down on the clock. I was to keep the shelves neat, sweep before closing, and never move the jar by the window. When I asked why, she just said, It's got a job to do same as you. Then she walked me to the back row and pointed to the last shelf on the left. Look normal, stacked with paper towels and bags of rice.

This one's not like the others. she's called Helen. If you treat her right, she'll restock herself. Grandma said, tapping the side of the shelf with the back of her hand. I stared at her. You named your shelf. She named herself. Now go on, be polite.

I looked at the shelf. Then back at Grandma. She didn't blink. So I sighed. leaned in a little and said, You're looking real solid today, Helen. Straight lines. Good wood grain.

I'm real proud of you. A box of rice slid into place on the bottom row, like it'd been there the whole time. I rubbed my eyes like I was seeing things but didn't say anything else. Grandma just gave me that little smug smile of hers that her and dad have in common, before turning down the next aisle. Next, she brought me into the office. The desk was stacked with loose papers, a cash box,

and three ceramic frogs that stared straight ahead like they were listening. On the far wall stood an old bookshelf, packed with cookbooks, gardening guides, and what looked like one very out-of-place sci-fi novel. It took me a second to realize that it was a battered edition of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. She walked straight up to it and pulled it off the top shelf. The whole bookshelf

slid open like a door. Come on. Let me show you the rest, she said. I followed her into a hallway just wide enough for one person at a time. It opened up into a room

that didn't make sense size-wise. From the outside, this should have been a closet. But the end of the end of the end. inside went deep. Long shelves, stone walls, soft light from glass lanterns hanging overhead. It looked more like a root cellar than part of a Harlem bodega. This is where the work happens. During the day we feed people. At night, we help them with something a little more special, she said. I stood there for a second, just trying to take it all in.

There were labeled jars, cloth-wrapped bundles, candles, and tiny bags pinned up like museum pieces. The whole place smelled like cinnamon and dried herbs. Not the kind you find in plastic shakers, either. Real ones. Pick my hand. I don't expect you to understand all this right away. Your daddy never took to it. Black thumb, that one.

Good man, but magic slid off him like. like rain off a slick coat. But you might have something. That blood didn't skip every generation, she said, that she looked me over. I told her I wasn't looking to become a root worker. I was just here to help her out, run errands whenever she needed. She smiled, like that was enough for now. Good, good, well, we'll see where it goes, she said.

And that's when I meant Salem. He walked in from the hallway, like he owned the place. Sleak gray fur, high tail. Eyes half closed like he was already tired of me. I bent down to greet him and got one sharp swipe across the toe of my sneaker. No claws, just a warning. Grandma looked over. Oh, that means he likes you.

He doesn't bother with people. don't plan on scene again. I didn't really believe her. I kept my distance just the same. The rest of the night moved quick. A werewolf came in first, still half-buttoned into a work shirt, asking if we had any more of the cedar and clove shampoo.

Said his usual spot ran out, and the store-brand stuff made his coat doll. Grandma handed him a dark bottle from a shelf I hadn't noticed before. No label on it, just a wax seal and a faint pine scent. He paid an exact change and promised to send his cousin by next week. Not long after, a vampire walked in wearing sunglasses and a wool coat like it was still winter. He asked if his order was ready. Two jars of blood replacement, one warm, one cold.

Grandma brought them out from out of the counter and placed them gently in a padded box. He nodded his thanks, slipped her a folded bill, and left without a word. Later, a fellow witch stopped by. She and Grandma hug like old neighbors, and caught up in short, quiet phrases. She handed over a neat bundle of cinnamon sticks tied with blue thread. In return, Grandma gave her a small, cloudy jar filled with what looked like pickled eyeballs. some open, some nod. Neither of them blinked. They just traded, nodded,

and the woman walked out humming to herself. I stood off to the side, trying not to stare. Grandma didn't explain a single thing. She just moved through it all, like this was the most natural job in the world. I didn't understand half of what I saw, but I knew enough to stay out of the way and keep the counter clean.

By the time we closed up, I realized I hadn't looked at my phone once. It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't anything like what I'd pictured. But I went to bed that night thinking, maybe I'd stumbled under something better. Maybe it was something I could get good on. Even if the cat hated me. I was sure Salem would warm up to me eventually. Maybe.

Getting used to the routine of running the shop, came easy, but I couldn't shake something off my mind. Like, why'd she take so long to come get me and explain it all? Grandma didn't bring it up right away. Weeks passed before she sat me down in the conjure room. It was late. The store was closed, the front lights off, and the back room smelled like cinnamon bay leaf, and something warm I couldn't name. She had a kettle on, and the air carried steam from carrot tea and the soft sound of jars clinking when she moved things around. That night, she pulled up a stool, handed me a mug, and said it was time I learned about root work. Real root work. This isn't wizard magic, she began. This ain't no fireball in one hand

and lightning in the other. No arson, got it, I said. She smacked me for that. She went on. She said root work, who do conjure, call it what you like, was magic for the people. It was born out of necessity and survival

through the darkest times. It's everyday magic. Household magic. Dust and bones to create tonics to heal the sick. Salt laid in the corners to keep out the ghouls. Red brick ground

up under the window frame. Things to keep you safe. To keep your people safe. That's what this is. She moved around the room as she talked. Her hands passed over jars filled with powders and oils and eyeballs that moved. She pointed out the difference between hot devil's powder and bone dust. Showed me where she kept the graveyard dirt.

Let me smell two different jars of pears. Ixie dust, and asked which one felt stronger. I didn't know how to answer, but she said my guess was right anyway. This kind of work helped folks through the worst of times, the kind of poor, where there's no soup left in the pot, the kind of sickness, where there's no doctor coming. We made do with what we had, and we kept each other whole, she said, as she passed, as she passed me a jar labeled frog toes. She said her own mother, daughter, back when they lived in the low country, before they moved north, said every woman in the line carried some piece of the

knowledge, even if they didn't want it, even if it scared them. Grandma wasn't afraid. She learned everything she could. I tried to teach her daddy once he didn't take to it, not that he wasn't smart. He just didn't have the right hands for it, she said. I leaned forward, turning the mug in my hands. Why didn't she ever teach me any of this growing up? Not even a little? Because it wasn't my call. Your daddy asked me not to. Said he wanted to raise you clean. Said you'd already been through enough losing your mama, and he didn't want you getting caught up. And I honored it, even though it hurt me. I kept you out of the shop.

I thought maybe one day he'd change his mind. My brow furrowed. Dad asked you not to. Your daddy loved your mama something fierce. When she passed, something in him folded up. like he couldn't unbend no matter how long I waited. He meant well, Sonny, but he was grieving for a long time. In grief, while it makes people turn away from what used to give him comfort, she explained.

I looked at the table between us. There was a bowl of roots soaking in water. Their edges had gone soft. The water smelled like soil and iron. But you're here now, and we've got time to catch up. You may not have come up with it, but that don't mean it can't live in you, she said with a smile. I smiled back. She stood again, moved toward a small box on the shelf, and brought out a folded cloth with something wrapped inside.

When she opened it, I saw a small box. bundle tied with string, filled with what looked like dirt, bone, and dried herbs. This is a starter hand for protection. Don't ask it for anything fancy now. Just carry it. Keep it close. You'll know when you need it. I took it without asking questions. The cloth felt warm, like it had been sitting in the sun. even though the room was cool. You don't have to be a root worker, she began. But you need to understand where you come from.

This isn't just magic. This is blood and legacy. Your dad knew it. I know it. You ought to know it, too. The room was quiet for a while after that, and the smell of steep roots and the sound of the kettle boiling. filled the room. For the first time, I understood why my dad kept me away.

Grandma had given me space to come back on my own terms, and somehow, without even meaning to, I had. I didn't know what all this would mean yet, what I was supposed to do with root magic or or legacy or any of it, but I didn't feel lost, at least not there in that room with Grandma. It felt like the ground had finally settled under me. And for someone like me, it was a piece I hadn't felt in a long time. Grandma's lesson stayed with me for the next few days. I kept the little protection bundle she gave me in the inner pocket of my jacket and found myself checking it without thinking.

It didn't glow or pulse or do anything special. It just sat there with a sort of weight. It was comforting. The place fell back into its usual rhythm after that. Regulars came and went. The front stayed calm, the back stayed busy, and grandma drifted in and out like someone who operated on a schedule only she understood. She said she had to commune with the spirit,

and the way she said it made it clear she didn't expect me to ask follow-up questions. She packed a thermos, a bag of dried, herbs and one of her heavier shawls and then she slipped out the back door. Sometimes she was gone for hours, sometimes days. This time it was the latter. The third morning she still hadn't returned. And I was halfway through sorting a crate of plantains when someone stepped into the shop who looked, for lack of a better word, like shit. The man introduced himself as Luther. He was tall and broad. His clothes were worn, and his jeans scuffed and frayed at the edges. He stood near the counter with both hands tucked into his jacket pockets, like he was trying not to touch anything, till he was

sure he was allowed. His eyes kept drifting toward the back hallway, as if he expected grandma to appear any minute. When I told him she wasn't here, and then I couldn't be sure when she'd be back, something in him tightened. He shifted his way to, and looked around the store again, as though trying to decide whether he should stay or leave. He stayed. He explained why he'd come. He said he worked at a construction site on the far side of Harlem, and had taken a cheap apartment nearby to save money on subway fare. He didn't try to sell it as anything more than it was, a bad building in a rough area, with a rent price low enough to raise suspicion.

He said he'd taken it anyway, because the commute had been wearing. him down, and he wanted a place close enough to walk. The trouble started after he moved in. Small things at first. Things a tired man might overlook, but they grew. The first issue was the smell. He said the apartment smelled like blood on Wednesday's only. No other day.

No matter how much he scrubbed, no matter how often he aired the place out. It sat under the walls and flared. doors like something no one had properly cleaned up. And then all the light bulbs broke. Not at once, one at a time, until the entire apartment went dark. He replaced them, but they kept breaking, and now he lived by candlelight. The last problem was the one he couldn't ignore. He said he'd been waking up with dirt on his chest every morning,

and not just a little, enough to coat his sheets, enough to leave a trail on the floor when he stood up. His nails were cracked and packed with soil he didn't remember touching. Some mornings he found dried blood at the edges of his cuticles, as if he'd clawed at something rough for hours. His shoes were scuffed to the leather. His jeans had dirt ground deep into the seams. He tried to explain. it away at first. Maybe he'd scratch the floor in his sleep. Maybe the dirt tracked in from the hallway. What finally broke him was the news. A string of graves had been disturbed at a cemetery

a few blocks from his building, not vandalized, opened, dug up with bare hands and no footprints around him. The evening broadcast showed photos of the damaged plots, and he felt sick to his stomach. He woke up the next day with blood under his nails again and felt exhausted down to the bone like he'd worked a full shift in his sleep. He didn't know what any of it meant, but he knew it wasn't right. And when he told this story at the bar where he stopped after work, the bartender told him to go talk to the witch. That was how he ended up standing in front of Maine,

waiting for someone to tell him whether he was imagining things, or if something was genuinely wrong with him or his home. I stood behind the counter. I tried to decide what I was supposed to do. Grandma wasn't here. She hadn't given me instructions for situations like this. But Luther kept standing there with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drawn tight, like a man holding his breath.

And after a few moments, it felt like the only answer was the simple one. I told him I could come take a look. I went to the back room and packed a small tote bag with the items grandma always used for simple protection cases. A candle, a bag of salt, a charm made from dried herbs and thread. A small jar of cleansing mix, she kept pre-made on the highest shelf. I didn't know whether any of it would help, but I recognized them from watching her work, and they made sense to bring. When I set the bag on the floor to add a few more items, Salem climbed inside without hesitation. He circled once and settled himself in like this was a routine he'd been waiting for.

He didn't look at me for permission. He never did. I figured if the shop familiar wanted to come along. Might be better to let him. I checked the toe once more, adjusted the strap, and told Luther, I was. was ready. He nodded. He didn't seem reassured, but he didn't seem alone anymore either. Sometimes that's the best someone can ask for. We stepped out out of the sidewalk with a tote over my shoulder, Salem's ears just barely visible from inside the bag, and the evening settling in across Harlem like another layer of the city waking up. I locked the front door, I checked it twice,

and reminded myself that this was part of the job now. Root workers made house calls. Witches did too. And if I was going to help Grandma run this place one day, I needed to learn how to walk into trouble instead of around it. I didn't know what we would find in Luther's apartment, but I sent a quick prayer to whoever was listening, knowing we'd need all the help we could get.

Luther led the way through a few side streets, until we reached his building. The entrance had peeling paint and a broken buzzer. The hallways were narrow and dim, and the whole place smelled like boiled cabbage the moment we stepped in. It wasn't subtle. The scent clung to the walls and floors and floated down the hallway in a steady wave. Made my stomach turn. But I tried to keep a straight face as we climbed up to the third floor. I learned enough from Grandma to know that smell. matters. Certain ones showed up in old magic, especially the kind used to hide work someone didn't want found. Boiled cabbage was common in Eastern European folklore. It was used to mask the

presence of a spell. I'd read that in one of Grandma's books the week before, and now it clicked in a way that felt too on the nose to ignore. Luther unlocked the door to his apartment, and the smell got worse. Salem jumped out of the same. the tote bag as soon as we stepped inside and began walking the perimeter. The apartment itself was small, one bedroom, one kitchen, and a living room with a sagging couch. The floorboards were worn down in patches. A candle sat on every flat surface. Luther hadn't exaggerated. Every light bulb really was gone. I walked through the rooms and tried not to think about how unqualified I felt.

I wasn't grandma. I didn't have decades of practice. I only had what she'd shown me and what I remembered from watching her work. Still, I was here now, and Luther was watching me with a look that expected something useful. I started with the basics. I checked the corners of the rooms for unusual powders or markings. I checked the doorframe for symbols or scratches.

I checked under the mattress for anything that didn't belong. The candlelight made it easy to see the small things. A few piles of dirt on the sheets confirmed what Luther had said. His shoes by the doors were still covered in mud. His jacket sleeves were frayed like he'd been digging through rough ground. Salem circled the living room twice before pausing near the kitchen. His ears flicked once. His tail twitched.

Then he walked toward the refrigerator and sat down in front of it, like he'd found what we were looking for. I took that as my cue. I moved into the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator forward. It scraped across the floor with a long grinding sound. Behind it, the wall didn't sit flush. There was a narrow panel with a small, small gap at the bottom, just wide enough for a hand to slip through. The boiled cabbage smell

was coming from there, stronger than anywhere else. When I pulled the panel free, a small crawl space revealed itself, big enough for a few objects, not big enough for a person. Salem backed up. His fur raised slightly. Inside the crawl space, was a bundle wrapped in cloth. The fabric was stained and tied with something that looked like old twine. I didn't touch it right away. Instead, I studied it the way Grandma always did

when someone brought her something strange. The cloth looked handmade. The twine wasn't twine at all, but horsehair braided tight-like. The smell of boiled cabbage came from inside that bundle. It was a concealment trick. Someone had placed this here intentionally.

It wasn't an accident, and it didn't belong to Luther. I took the bundle out and placed it on the kitchen table. Then I untied it carefully. Inside were bone fragments, herbs I didn't recognize, a stone covered in red dust, and a piece of cloth that looked like it'd been torn from someone's clothing, all wrapped together in a way that spoke of a deliberate hand.

It was a voodoo artifact. Old, tense. The kind used to direct fear or sickness towards someone without even touching them. Grandma kept items like this, locked away at the back of the conjure room. She said they were nothing to play with. I unpacked the tote bag. and set out the items I brought. The candle for clearing.

The salt for boundaries. The protection charm for the room. The jar of cleansing mix for the corners. I work slowly, the same way I'd seen Grandma do it. Salt across the threshold first. Then the corners. Then the window cells. Then the candle in the center of the living room.

I lit it and watched the flame catch. I repeated the process through every room, making sure the salt line stayed unbroken. Salem inspected every spot after I finished it, which I took as approval. When the work was done, the apartment felt different. Not lighter exactly, but calmer. The boiled cabbage smell didn't vanish, but it faded enough to make the place feel like a real home. instead of something under a spell. Luther thanked me.

There was something in the change of his expression that caught my eye. It looked like he believed he'd finally be able to sleep. Grandma returned to the shop three days later. She listened to everything I told her about the apartment in the crawl space. She examined the bundle I'd wrapped up and brought back. She didn't touch it with her bare hands. She said Luther must have upset. set someone connected to old magic.

Maybe an ex-wife with a wrong kind of ties. Maybe a boss with family roots he didn't talk about. Someone with access to his place. And a grudge deep enough to do this kind of thing. They planted the artifact. And the apartment did the rest. She called it a bone yard curse. An old spell meant to drive a person toward the grave one night at a time.

left alone long enough, it would have pulled Luther toward the place he kept waking up covered in dirt from. A person doesn't survive that kind of end. They go willingly, because the curse tells them to, If I hadn't made the house call, Grandma said he would have buried himself alive within weeks. But Luther was safe now. The curse was broken.

The apartment was clean. Whoever had planted the artifact hadn't shown themselves, and that part of the mystery would remain unsolved. To this day. Things settled down after the Luther case, at least by Harlem standards. The shop kept its usual rhythm, and Grandma slipped back into her routines like she'd never been gone.

I kept helping customers, stock in shelves, learning names, and figuring out which jars I wasn't supposed to touch unless she told me to. The familiar regulars still stopped by, Betty with her bags of gossip and clumsy elbows, Jack with his cigarette smoke and soft voice, and the rest of the neighborhood's supernatural crowd, who treated the shop like a second home. I stayed. Wasn't a decision I made all at once. It just happened in the way slow decisions.

do. The kind you realize, only after they've already become true. Some mornings, I would catch sight of my degree hanging on the back wall of my room and feel that itch, you know, like I should be doing something more official, more, I don't know, career-shaped. But that itch got smaller every day. Harlem had its own kind of work waiting for me. Real work. Work that people needed. Grandma still called most of the shots, but every now and then she gave me a job that carried more weight. A cleansing, a blessing, a reading. Nothing big, nothing too dangerous. But enough to show she trusted me to take steps in the same direction she'd walked her whole life.

I didn't call myself a root worker, and she didn't call me one either. She said the title wasn't important. The responsibility was. I could see myself staying here for a long time, maybe longer than I expected. There's something about this neighborhood that keeps you in place, not trapped exactly and just anchored. And once you start paying attention, you realize how many stories sit under the sidewalks and fire escapes. Monsters buying groceries, witches trading recipes, spirits trying to pay off old debts. It's a strange corner of the world, but it feels honest in a way my old life never did.

So that's all I've got for now. Those are the stories I can tell without grandma fussing at me for sharing too much. If you've listened this far, well, thank you. I'll have more eventually. Harlem always provides. Oh, you know, and if you ever need anything, bread, beans, coffee. Or maybe a solution to a problem. You can't say out loud to anyone else.

You know where to find us. Until then, be careful out there. If you ever meet me, you will probably find me rolling my eyes. It's not that I hate people. Maybe I do a little. But my patience has been worn so thin you could see through it. My name's Dante. I'm 32 years old and stuck running the fan.

family business. The name of this place, Graziano's groceries. Sounds normal, right? Well, that's the whole point. I grew up here in Jersey, though my family's roots are deep in southern Italy. My grandpa's the real deal, born and raised in the old country, where every meal was a ritual, and family meant everything. He came to America with big dreams, as they always say, but life had other plans. My dad got sick young, my mom wasn't in the picture, and so it fell on Grandpa and me to keep the store running. Now, now Grandpa's in the back room most of the time, technically working, but he's in his 80s now. He mostly naps, plays cards with himself, and critiques my every move in that gruff Italian wave is, Dante, why don't you clean the counters? They look like you serve soup

on him. That's what he sounds like. Or, you call this a stock in shelves. My blind cousin Maria stock shows better than this. Now, you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it's still great son me. But despite the griping, grandpa's my rock. He always has been. Me, I'm kind of snarky, sure, and my sarcasm could cut glass, but I don't know. Try being an Italian-American guy running a grocery store for the, well, let's just say, less than human clientele. It'll do things to your mood. See, this isn't your run-of-the-mill store. Sure, we have the basics, like eggs, milk, and pasta.

God forbid, I run out of pasta. I'd hear it from the whole family, alive and dead. But are real bread and butter? Catering to the supernatural. throne. I'm talking about monsters. Yeah, you heard me right. Vampires, werewolves, banshees, shape-shifters, the occasional demon with a hankering for sulfur-flavored chewing gum. They all shop here. My family's been running this store for centuries, way before America was even a glimmer in anyone's eye. Back in Italy, it was a market stall. Here, it's a grocery store.

tucked between a laundromat and a pizza shop that's been under renovation for as long as I can remember. I grew into this life for better wars. As a kid, I thought it was exciting, helping stock shelves with blood bags for less, or arranging silver-free razors for our werewolf clientele. But the novelty wore off when I started realizing what it meant for my life, explaining why you smell like garlic and brimstone after work doesn't exactly win you friends you know let alone dates i was the weird kid who didn't let anyone come over who had that strange grandpa and whose family was just a little too secretive about their business high school was hell let me tell you but now this is just my life monday through saturday i am here from nine to nine

dealing with everything from, do you carry ethically sourced moonstones, to why are your ectoplasm jars always sticky? Sundays are technically my day off, but there's always some urgent issue that drags me back. Grandpa's too old to handle the crazier stuff, so it's all unmade. Lucky me. Physically, I'm nothing special, but I've got the hands of a worker, rough, calloused, and strong enough to haul a 20-pound sack of enchanted rice without breaking a sweat. I wear the same thing every day. Jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a flannel shirt over it because the store's always freezing. No matter how much I crank the thermostat, there's always a draft.

The customers like it that way, though. Cold keeps the undead fresher, apparently. I live in a tiny apartment above the store. It's nothing fancy. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen that barely fits one person. My only real luxury is coffee. Good coffee. I grind my beans fresh every morning. Now that you know me? Let's talk about the store. Graziano's isn't big, but it's packed floor to ceiling with shelves. The aisles are narrow. The lighting is dim.

Monsters hate fluorescence. And there's a faint hum in the air from the enchanted refrigeration units. The sign outside says open 24 hours, but that's a lie. We close at 9 p.m. sharp, no exceptions. I don't care if Dracula himself shows up five minutes light. He's waiting till morning. Behind the counter, there's a bell. Customers ring it when they need help, though I wish they wouldn't. Half the time, it's something stupid, like, do you have this in a different shade of black. The other half, it's a complaint. This blood is too warm, or these werewolf treats gave my pup gas. And then there are the ones who just want to chat. Dante, you look tired, been feeding on enough souls lately. Very funny. Grandpa's back room is off limits to everyone but

family. It's where we keep the good stuff, ancient relics, rare ingredients, and items that are too dangerous to put on the shelves. If a customer asked for something from back there, well, they'd better have the right credentials. Otherwise, they're getting a firm no. Running Graziano's groceries is like starring in a sitcom where the laugh track is replaced with groans in the occasional snarl. Most days, the routine is predictable. Unlock the door, flip the closed sign to open, and brace myself for the day's parade of monsters. And no, I don't mean bad customers, though we've got plenty of those too. My morning start with a quick sweep through the store.

The werewolves always leave fur everywhere, so I've got a lint roller in one hand, and a broom in the other. Next, I check the shelves to make sure everything's not. We've got blood gummies and three flavors. Cherry, raspberry, and, oh, negative. gluten-free vampire crackers, and protein shakes for ghouls. The refrigerated section has everything from fresh animal organs to pre-packaged zombie snacks. And let's not forget the cleaning supplies.

Stuff like fur-be-gone shampoo and stain-away silver-free detergent. By the time I finish, the regulars start trickling in. First through the door, as always Mrs. Mabel. A banshee in her 60s who crochetes little scarves for her cats. She doesn't scream anymore. Not since she got a throat issue. But her voice still makes my ears ring. But she's nice and she reminds me my grandmother.

Sometimes she even brings me cookies. Good morning, Dante. She says, dragging her basket behind her. Do you have any more of those licorice bones? Top shelf aisle, too, I reply, without looking up from my inventory tablet. Such a sweet boy, she croons, even though I'm ignoring her. Next up is a vampire in a tailored suit, slicked back hair, and an attitude that screams old money. He doesn't say much, just grabs two packs of blood gummies and a bottle of imported essence of twilight.

Before he leaves, he gives me a look like he's appraising me for dinner. I shoot him a thumbs up. Then there's the werewolf pack. You can hear them before you see him, a group of four or five big guys with broad shoulders, loud voices, and more facial hair than a lumberjack convention. They're regulars, coming in every couple of days to stock up on meat, snacks, and specialty shampoos.

Today, their leader, a guy named Marco, looks especially annoyed. Marco slams a bottle of Fur-Begone shampoo out of the counter. Dante? What the hell is this? I glance at it. Looks like shampoo, Marco. You forget how to read? This isn't the brand I use, man.

Where's the Wolfman and Sun's line? You're always stuck with it. Not anymore, I say. Discontinued. Discontinued. Marco's voice rises, and a couple of his packmates growl in agreement. You just can't stop carrying something like that. Like fur in each premium care, Dante. It's Dante.

I begin. My name's Dante. You've been coming here for like 30 years. years, you know my name's Dante. In your fur, Marco? Looks like you've been rolling in a dumpster. I don't know. Maybe try this one. It's the same stuff, just a different label.

It's not the same. He snaps, jabbing a finger at me. You don't get it. It's a were a wolf thing. Oh, I get it. I've been selling you this stuff since you were a pup. You think I don't know, shampoo? How dare you?

Trust me, Marco, I know shampoo. You'll take what I give you, or you'll smell like wet dog all week. The other customers are starting to stare now. But I don't care. Marco growls, literally growls, and slams his fist on the counter. You're lucky I don't shift right here and rip this place apart. Yeah, yeah, big bad wolf. I say, waving him off.

You're going to huff and puff, too? Look, if you don't want the shampoo, don't buy it. Nobody's forcing you, too. Marco's face is turning red now. Well, redder. You know what? I'm going to talk to Tony about this. Now, let me explain something about my grandfather, Tony Graziano.

He's not just my grandpa. He is a legend. To the monsters, he's like a mix of the godfather. and your friendly neighborhood butcher. He knows everyone. And everyone respects him. When things get heated, invoking Grandpa's name

is like pulling the emergency brake. I sigh. I don't have to make my point. You really want to bother my 80-something-year-old grandfather because you don't like the shampoo. You know what? Fine. Be my guest. Marco stomps toward the back room. But before he can get there, the door creaks open.

And there he is. Tony Graziano in all his glory. He's short and stooped, but still has this commanding presence. He's wearing a cardigan over his button-down shirt, a flat cap perched on his head and slippers because he never wears shoes inside the store. Hey, what's all this yelling out there? Grandpa, I start.

But Marco cuts me up. off. Mr. Graziano, with all due respect, your grandson doesn't know how to run this place. He stopped carrying wolfmen in sun's shampoo. Can you believe that? It's a disgrace. Grandpa stares at Marco for a long moment, then turns to me. Dante, why'd you stop carrying the shampoo? It was too expensive, Grandpa. They jacked up the price and nobody was buying it. Plus, you know, this new one looks just as good. Grandpa nods slowly, then looks back at Marco.

Marco, you come into my store, you shout, you disrespect my grandson. And for what a shampoo? But Mr. Grasiano, grandpa holds up a hand, silencing him instantly. You want the other shampoo, fine. You bring me the money up front, I'll order it for you. But until then, you use what we have. Or you don't use anything, capish? Marco hesitates, his bravado deflating.

Ah, capish, he mutters, grabbing the bottle off the counter. Grandpa gives him a hard stare. Good, now go. And next time, remember who runs this place? Once Marco and his pack are gone, the store settles into its usual rhythm. Grandpa shuffles back to his room, muttering something. something in Italian about kids these days, and I get back to ringing up customers. The Banshee lady buys her licorice bones. The vampire leaves with his gummies, and I even

sell a jar of ghost jam to some guy with glowing red eyes. It's just another day in Graziano's. By the time the lunch rush is over, I'm already exhausted. But that's life here. Every day's a little chaotic, little weird, and a lot frustrating. Tuesday mornings at Graziano's are what I like to call the calm before the storm. It's the one part of the week where I can pretend my life is normal. Grandpa's in the back, asleep in his recliner with a blanket over his legs, snoring just loud enough to hear. The store is quiet, aside from the soft hum of the refrigerators

and the occasional creak of a shelf under too much weight. I'm at the register, feet up on the couch, Flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly. Don't judge me. It's not my usual reading material, but it was sitting on the magazine's rack, and I was bored. Plus, I find it hilarious. The articles are like ten spells to keep your broomstick sparkling. And love potion recipes.

What's safe? What's scary? There's even a quiz. Which famous witch are you? Apparently, I'm a mildred the meddlesome, who knew? Just as I'm reading an advice column about handling hex-happy neighbors, the bell above the door jingles. My first customer of the day is a goblin in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase that looks older than my grandpa. He nods at me as he walks in, heading straight for Isle 3.

Goblins love Isle 3. It's where we keep the enchanted polishing cloths and anti-curse spray. Two things they apparently cannot live with. out. I go back to my magazine, but not even five minutes later. Another customer walks in. This time, it's a pale woman in a black cloak. Her eyes scanning the store, like she's never been here before. Excuse me, she says, approaching the counter. Do you carry powdered grave moss? Yep, aisle seven, second shawl from the top, right next to the dried night shade. I reply without looking up. Oh, thank you, she says shuffling off. I flip a page in which weekly and keep reading, but it's not long before someone else comes in. A pair of trolls, both wearing tattered overalls.

One of them picks up a basket while the other heads straight for the counter. Hey, Betty. The troll says, scratching his bald head. Where do you keep the troll better? I glance up from my magazine. I-04, bottom shelf, left side. It's right next to the jars of fermented toadstool paste. Get it. He says, lumbering off. By lunchtime, the store is bustling with activity.

I don't know why Tuesdays are so popular, but it's like every supernatural being within a hundred-mile radius decided today was grocery day. And of course, they all have questions. Where's the silver-free detergent, they ask? Isle 6, middle shelf next to the hypoallergenic wolf collars. Do you sell bottled ectoplasm? Isle 2, third shelf from the bottom, right next to the spectral sting remover.

I'm looking for cursed apples. They're really good ones. Idle 8, top shelf, they're in a black box labeled Premium Hext Produce. No matter how obscure the item, I know exactly where it is. I could give directions blindfolded. It's not because I care that much about the store or the customers, mind you. I just have a really good memory. Always have.

It's like my brain automatically catalogs everything the second I see it. Grandpa says it's a gift, but honestly, feels more like a curse when you're constantly bombarded with questions. Around mid-afternoon, a vampire named Victor strolls in. He's one of our regulars, always dressed like he's headed to a funeral. Today, he's wearing a long black coat with a blood-red scarf. Very dramatic. Dante, he says,

Do you happen to have any more of that vintage plasma? The 1897 badge? Nope, my reply. Sold the last bottle last week. But we got the 1912 blend in style. aisle 5, second shelf from the bottom, next to the bottled despair. Victor raises an eyebrow. You remember every detail about every item in the store?

Pretty much, I say, flipping another page in my magazine. It's not that hard. He looks genuinely impressed. How do you do it? I shrug. I don't know, just got a good memory. Always have. Ask me where anything is and I can tell you down to the shelf number.

Victor chuckles softly. Fascinating. You'd make an excellent librarian. Yeah, because that's my dream job, I say. Organizing books for undead nerds all day. Victor smirks and heads off to find his plasma. I go back to my magazine, but the moment of peace doesn't last. Another customer, a harpy this time, flaps up to the counter. Do you sell feather conditioner?

She asked me. Yep, aisle three top shelf next to the talon polish. By the time the afternoon rush dies down, I have answered so many questions I feel like a walking storm app. Grandpa's still asleep in the back, snoring like a freight train. The magazine is now crumpled from me flipping. through it too many times, and my patience is wearing thin. But that's just another Tuesday, at Graziano's. It was a day like any other Graziano's. Grandpa was in the back, dozing in his

recliner with an old Italian movie playing on the tiny TV he'd rigged up. I was at the cash register, leaning against the counter, and munching on a canoli I'd swipe from the bakery box we keep in the employee fridge. Tuesdays might be busy. But third, third, Thursdays are slow. A few regulars coming in for their weekly essentials and the occasional new face who stumbles in by accident, looking for normal groceries. They usually don't stay long. The bell above the door jingled and in walked the first customer of the day, a werewolf named Tony. Not my grandpa, mind you, but a short, wiry guy with a scruffy beard and a perpetual twitch in his left eye. He nodded at me and headed straight for eyes.

Isle 4, where we keep the meat snacks and wolf treats. Normal day, nothing to see here. Then the door jingled again, and two vampires strolled in. They were young, or at least they looked young, probably barely out of their first century. They were dressed like extras from a twilight movie, all leather jackets and dark sunglasses. They didn't even head for the shelves right away. Instead, they lingered near the entrance, whispering to a little. each other in voices just loud enough for me to barely hear.

Dangerous, no self-control. I rolled my eyes, took another bite in my canoli. Monster gossip. It's even worse than human gossip. I've learned to tune it out over the years, but every now and then, something grabs my attention. Today was shaping up to be one of those days. The vampires moved on to Isle 6, still muttering under their breath.

But before I could forget about him, The door jingled again. This time it was Mrs. Mabel, our banshee regular. She waved at me with her gnarled hand and headed straight for the licorice bones. Her cane clicking against the tile floor. I heard he was in town, she said to no one in particular. Such a shame he's nothing but trouble. One of the vampires overheard her and replied,

Should have stayed where they sent him. too dangerous to be around us civilized people. They were still talking when the werewolf Tony came back to the counter with a basket full of snacks. He plopped it down and gave me a sheepish grin. It's crazy stuff, huh? I blinked. What crazy stuff. You know about him, Tony said.

I sighed and started scanning his items. Tony, I've been here all morning. I don't know what you're talking about. Tony leaned in closer, his twitchy eye making him look like he was about to spill some serious beans. You really haven't had? The big guy? The one who got kicked out a few years back. He's back in town.

I shrugged. So? Tony frowned, clearly unimpressed with my lack of interest. So, he's dangerous, Dante. Real dangerous. You know most of us have rules, right? Lines we don't cross. This guy doesn't care about any of that.

He does what he wants, and he is strong enough to get away with it. Uh-huh. What I said? Sliding a pack of wolf jerky across the scanner. And what's his deal? He steals someone's parking spot? Tony shook his head.

Oh, it's worse than that, my friend. He's, let's just say he's got a bad temper. Heard a lot of people before. That's why they got rid of him in the first place. But now he's back. And everyone's scared. I nodded absently. Only half listening as I bagged his items.

I've heard this kind of talk before. monsters love a good villain. Every few months, some rogue vampire or out-of-control werewolf becomes the talk of the town, and everyone acts like it's the end of the world. Usually it blows over in a week or two. This guy was probably no different. As the day went on, the store got busier, and the gossip got louder. A group of witches and pointy hats came in around noon,

chattering away like a flock of crows. I heard he took out an entire pack last week. No self-control, they say. Shouldn't even be allowed back too dangerous. Then a couple of ghouls wandered in. Their hollow voices adding to the noise, If he comes around here, I'm not sticking around. Not worth the risk.

By mid-afternoon, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Every single customer had something to say about this guy, though no one seemed to agree on the details. Some said he was a vampire. Others swore he was a werewolf. A banshee claimed he was something else entirely. A hybrid or a freak of nature. The only thing they all agreed on was that he was dangerous, stronger than most, meaner than most, and prone to lashing out.

I didn't care much about monster politics, but I had to admit this was starting to sound like more than the usual drama. Not that I'd ever let anyone know I was actually paying attention. It was almost closing time when a lone customer came up to the counter. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a face that looked like it had seen its fair share of fights. His clothes were simple, jeans and a black t-shirt. But there was something about him that made him. me keep my guard up. He dropped a jar of cursed honey and a pack of spectral mints onto the counter and gave me a nod. Evening, he said. Evening, I replied, scanning his items. He leaned on the

counter, his eyes casually drifting around the store. Busy day? Always is, I said. You know how it goes. He chuckled. Yeah, I guess I do. A lot of talk in the air today, though. You hear about the big guy? I gave him a look. You mean the guy everyone's been whispering about like he's Voldemort? The man laughed.

A deep, gravelly sound. That's the one. Folks are scared. And for good reason, he is not someone you want to cross paths with. I shrugged, sliding his items into a bag. Now I don't plan on crossing paths with anyone. I just work here. The man nodded, his smile fading a little.

Smart. Real smart. But just in case, you might want to keep an eye out. He's got a way of showing up where you least expect him. Noted, I said, handing him a bag. You have a nice night. You too, he said, giving me one last look before heading out the door. The bell jingled as he left, and I was alone again.

The store finally quiet. I leaned back against the counter and stared at the door, wondering if today was the start of something big, or just another day in Graziano's. It was just past nine o'clock when I locked the front door to Grosiano's. The day had been longer than usual, filled with too many questions, too much gossip, and far too little patience. Normally, I'd head upstairs to my tiny apartment, heat up some leftover pasta, and collapse on the couch. But tonight, something about all the chatter wouldn't leave me alone. The way everyone kept talking about this mysterious monster, their hushed tones and nervous glances.

It was sticking in my head like a splinter. I had to know more. I walked to the back of the store, where Grandpa was still snoozing in his recliner, the glow of the tiny TV, casting flickering light over his weathered face. Some old black and white Italian film was playing, the kind with dramatic music, and way too much hand-waving. I stood there for a second, debating whether to let it go, but curiosity went out. "'A, uh, uh, grandpa?' I said, given the side of his chair a nudge. "'Wake up.' He stirred, blinking a few times before fixing me with a bleary-eyed glare.

"'Ah, Dante, what do you want? I was dreaming about Sophia Loren.' "'Charming,' I said, crossing my arms. "'Hey, uh, listen, I need to ask you something.' He groaned, rubbing his face. Oh, if it's about that damn expresso machine, I told you, it's busted. No, no, it's not that. You ever heard about some big monster being back in town? The customers wouldn't shut up about it today.

That got his attention. Grandpa sat up straighter, his brow furwing. What monster? I don't know. I said. They didn't give him a name, just said he is dangerous. Supposedly stronger than most doesn't follow any rules and has a bad habit of hurting people. A couple of them mentioned he was banished before. I don't know if that ring any bells. Grandpa's face darkened. The usual twinkle in his eye, replaced by something I couldn't quite read. You are sure. Yeah, I said I'm sure.

practically everyone who came in today was talking about it. One guy even called him the big guy. Sound familiar? Grandpa didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed himself out of the recliner with a grunt and shuffled over to an old wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. I watched as he unlocked it with a small key from his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate.

When he pulled out a thick leather-bound book, I raised an eyebrow. This story time now? I asked. He carried the book over to the table. He flipped it open, the brittle pages crackling as he searched for whatever he was looking for. When he finally stopped, he tapped a page with a gloved hand. He pointed and said one word, Minotaur. I leaned over the table to look.

The page showed a detailed, illustration of a massive creature, half man, half bull, with horns that curved and muscles that looked carved from stone. The text beside it was written in Italian, but I could make out enough of the words to get the gist, dangerous, violent, cunning. What about him? I asked. When I asked about the Minotaur, the answer wasn't what I expected. He was described. He was described, as one of the first monsters my grandfather had ever encountered, back when he was just starting out in the family business. Apparently, this one was different. Most monsters have their corks, but they follow certain rules and generally avoid trouble. The Minotaur. He didn't care,

about monsters, about humans, about anything. I tried to downplay it. So what? He was a bully. But it wasn't that simple. The way the story went, he was dangerous, truly dangerous. Someone who hurt people, killed them, just because he could. Eventually, an alliance was formed between humans and monsters. They banished him, and they locked him away in a maze of all things, somewhere several towns over. A maze. I couldn't help the skepticism.

What is this Greek mythology? The response was sharp. Something about how myths don't come from nowhere that the stories people tell are based on something real. The maze had been built to keep him contained. And for decades, it had worked. But now, well, for some reason, apparently things had changed. Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms.

Come on, he can't be that bad. You're talking like he's some unstoppable force. That's when I saw the proof. The glove came off, revealing a hand that was missing two fingers, index and middle, to be exact. The scars were jagged and old, but there was no mistaking what they meant. What happened to your hand? I asked. The explanation was simple. The Minotaur.

Apparently someone had thought they could reason with him, calm him down, and it hadn't gone well. It tore those fingers off like they were nothing. For once, I didn't know what to say. The story sounded insane, but the look in my grandfather's eyes and the scars on his hand made it hard to argue. Suddenly, all the chatter I'd heard earlier started to make sense. So what do we do? I asked quietly. The answer wasn't what I expected. Nothing, he said. It wasn't our fight anymore.

If the Minotaur was really back, somebody else would have to deal with him. I wanted to protest, but the conversation was shut down before I could. Stay out of it. The Minotaur wasn't something I wanted to mess with, he said. I nodded, but doubt lingered. if this guy was really as dangerous as the story suggested, how long before he showed up here? And if he did? What then?

The rum felt heavier after that. The only sound was the faint murmur of the TV in the background. My eyes dropped to the book in front of me, to the drawing of the minotaur and the ominous words beneath it. For the first time, I felt a sliver of unease. about what might be coming. The book was closed and locked away, along with a conversation. I was told to get some rest,

that tomorrow was another day. The bell above the door jingled, and in walked Marco, the werewolf pack leader, with a scruffy beard and swagger of a frat boy who never left college. He was wearing his usual backwards baseball cap and a tank top that read Wolf Bros. for life,

He stomped up to the counter, his face unusually serious, and dropped a six-pack of silver-free energy drinks onto the counter. Dante, man, we got a situation. I barely looked up from the inventory sheet. I was pretending to care about... What, you run out of protein powder? No, dude, it's serious. Marco insisted.

Mrs. Mabel, man. She got snatched. That got my attention. I straightened up, narrowing my eyes on him. What are you talking about? The Minotaur, bro? He took her, dragged her off to that creepy maze a few times over. I heard about it from one of the goblins.

Why would the Minotaur want Mrs. Mabel? I began. She's harmless. Bakes cookies, knits scarves? Maybe yells at people who don't recycle, but, I mean, that's it. Marco shrugged, opening one of the energy drinks and taking a loud gulp. Banchise can see the future, right? Maybe he doesn't want her spilling his big evil plans or something.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. Mrs. Mabel, of all people. Sure, she could be a bit much, but she was a small. sweet old lady she brought me cookies every christmas and called me her favorite human can you believe that i mean i think she'd only met like three but still she was basically my second grandma and now she was in the hands of that monster who according to my actual grandpa made a habit of hurting people just because he could Marco was still talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. Instead, I was staring down at my hands,

trying to decide whether I should do something very stupid. Dante, yo, you good? Marco asked, snapping his fingers in front of me. I sighed again, louder this time, and I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. Yeah, I'm good. I'm also apparently the only idiot in town who is going to do something about this. Marco blinked at me.

Wait, you're serious, man? You're going to go after her? Well, somebody has to. I muttered, grabbing my keys and heading for the door. And I guess that someone is me. Marco grinned, clearly enjoying the drama. Dude, Dante, you're legend. You can call me a hero if you want to.

I probably am. But if I don't come back, tell Grandpa this is your fault. The drive to the abandoned church wasn't far. Just two towns over. Grandpa's description of the maze had been vague, near the old church with the broken windows, but it was enough to go on. My truck roared down the empty highway,

the speedometer needle creeping well past the limit. I wasn't one for heroics, but Mrs. Mabel really was endangered. I couldn't sit back and do nothing. Stupid banshee, I muttered to myself, gripping the wheel tighter. Why'd she have to go and get kidnapped? Despite my grumbling, my chest tightened the closer I got. The fault of Mrs. Mabel, sweet old Miss Mabel, trapped with a monster like the Minotaur.

It didn't sit right. The church came into view, just as the sun was starting to dip behind the trees. It was an old crumbling thing, with a bell tower leaning precariously to one side. The stained glass windows were shattered, leaving jagged edges that glinted in the fading light. I parked the car, got out, and stared up at the place, feeling an odd mix of dread and determination. With a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching, I crossed myself. Sorry God for not going to mass in a long. long time, I mumbled, before heading inside.

The inside of the church was as bad as the outside, pews overturned, dust everywhere, and the faint smell of mildew in the air. I made my way to the basement steps, which creaked under my weight as I descended. The air grew colder, heavier as I reached the bottom. And there it was, the entrance to the maze. The doorway was framed with rough stone, the kind that looked like it hadn't been touched in centuries. Beyond it, the maze stretched into darkness, its walls made of ancient brick and mortar. I pulled out my flashlight and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the gloom.

Right? I muttered. Let's get this over with. I remember the old legend grandpa had mentioned. the one about the hero who used string to navigate the maze. What was his name again? Thesaurus, Thessius, whatever. I didn't care. I had something better than string.

I had my memory. If I could remember the exact shelf where we kept enchanted mobs, I could handle a stupid maze. The maze was quiet, save for the sound of my boots scuffing against the stone floor. Every turn looked the same. same brick walls, damp corners, and the occasional patch of moss. I kept track of each turn in my head, left, left, right, straight, right, left. The pattern formed like a map in my mind. Each

intersection burned into my memory. The air grew colder, the deeper I went, and my pulse quickened with every step. Somewhere in the maze, the minotaur was lurking. I hadn't seen him yet, but I could feel his presence, a heavy weight in the air, like a storm waiting to break. Then I heard it, a faint noise barely more than a whisper. A voice. Help! It was Mrs. Mabel. I turned another corner and spotted her.

She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her cane lying uselessly, beside her. Her face lit up when she saw me. Dante, she exclaimed. Took you long enough? Yeah, yeah, I said kneeling beside her. Don't get used to it. Saving banshees isn't in my job description. She gave me a weak smile. The cookies are, though? I sighed. All right, come on, old lady. Let's get out of here before he comes back. sliding my arms under her.

I lifted her off the ground. She was surprisingly heavy for someone so small, but I didn't let it show. Not much, anyway. You know, you're pretty heavy for an old bag. I grunted as I started retracing my steps. Mrs. Mabel swatted my shoulder. You keep that up, and I'll start poisoning those cookies. I smirked, despite myself, and kept moving.

My mind running through the mental map I'd made of the maze. Left, right, straight, left, left. The sounds of heavy breathing echoed somewhere behind us. Faint, but getting closer. I picked up the pace. My flashlight swinging wildly as I took each turn. The walls seemed to close in around us, the air growing heavier with every step.

My arms ached from carrying Mrs. Mabel, but I was not about to stop. Dante, she said softly. If we don't make it out of here, I just... Thank you. Save it, I muttered.

Just don't tell Grandpa I was nice to a banshee. He'll never let me hear the end of it. A faint chuckle escaped her, and it gave me just enough of a boost to keep going. The entrance was close now. I could feel it. But the Minotaur's presence loomed by, us, I could hear his heavy breathing and he was getting closer. I didn't dare look back. One wrong

turn and we'd be done for. Finally, the doorway came into view. The faint light from my truck's headlights spilling into the darkness. I burst through it, gasping for air as I carried Mrs. Mabel up the basement stairs and out of the church. I set her down gently on the passenger seat of the truck. Her face pale but relieved. Slamming the door shut, I climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key, the engine roaring to life. As we sped away, I glanced in the rearview mirror at the church shrinking in the distance. The maze might have kept the minotaur contained for decades, but now I knew he wasn't as trapped as everyone fought. Mrs. Mabel leaned her head back against the seat, her breathing steadying.

"'You're a good boy, Dante?' "'A right, that's enough,' I replied. She laughed weakly, and for the first time that night, I let myself relax just a little. We weren't out of the woods yet, but for now we were alive, and that was enough. By the time we pulled into the lot behind Graziano's, the adrenaline had worn off,

and all I felt was exhaustion. I helped Mrs. Mabel out of the truck and into the back room, where Grandpa was already waiting. He must have heard us come in because he was standing by the table, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as ever. I set Mrs. Mabel down gently in the recliner. I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath as I explained what had happened. The reaction wasn't what I expected. The usual calm demeanor gave way to something. sharper. Tense. The weight of what I'd said settled in immediately, and I could feel the disapproval simmering. Yes, I went after her, okay. What was I supposed to do? Leave her there? She's, she's Mrs. Mabel. And that seemed to soften him, just slightly. A silent nod.

Approval, maybe. It caught me off guard. I blinked. So that's it? No long talk about being reckless or almost getting myself killed? Apparently, the talk was being saved for another day. The next time I did something stupid probably. The next morning, it was clear there'd be no time to rest. By the time I made it downstairs, groggy and half-wake, everything had already been set in motion. There was a list waiting on the counter, outlining everything we needed to protect the

store. Reinforced doors, silver-laced locks, and even a stockpile of enchanted weapons for sale. Apparently, we weren't taking any chances. A brum was shoved into my hands with a directive to clean the floor, which apparently looked like a herd of trolls had stomped through. I sighed and got to work. I grumbled, but did as I was told. Word spread quickly about what had happened, and by lunchtime, We had a steady stream of customers coming in, asking about protective charms and anti-minotaur kits. Grandpa, of course, was more than happy to oblige. Within a few days, life at Graziano's return to its usual chaos. The werewolves still tracked fur through the aisles.

The vampires still complained about the temperature, and Mrs. Mabel still brought me cookies every week. You are my favorite human, you know? She said one afternoon, placing a fresh batch of snicker-doodles on the counter. Yes, I know, I replied. You better not have poisoned these. That's the thing about Graziano's. No matter what happens, kidnappings, dangerous monsters,

or customers who can't find the canned ectoplasm, it always goes back to the same old routine. Grandpa's in the back, yelling at me for something or other. The customers are complaining, and I am standing at the register, trying to pretend I don't care. But every now and then, I catch myself smiling, whether it's a dumb joke, Grandpa tells, or when Mrs. Mabel drops off her cookies.

And in those moments, I remember that as much as I complain, this is home. It's just another day in Graziano's. I've always been drawn to strange stories, the kind to keep you up at night. I spent more nights than I could count, scrolling through forums and Reddit threads, reading about haunted places,

mysterious disappearances, and unexplained events. True or not, those stories always grabbed my attention. And that's why, when I saw the job posting for the creepy pasta grocery store, I couldn't believe my luck. Wasn't a typical ad,

had no flashy graphics, no professional formatting, just a plain text line that read Night Shift available for those curious about the unusual. It wasn't just my love of strange stories that made me apply so quickly. I needed the money. College wasn't cheap, and my parents were already stretched thin trying to support me. Between tuition, rent, and textbooks, I had to pull my weight. Taking a night shift seemed perfect. It'd give me time during the day for my other part-time jobs and classes,

and maybe leave a little extra for the next semester. I didn't really expect to get the job. The process was almost non-existent, just a quick phone call and a promise that I could start right away. No interview, no paperwork, no questions. At the time, I thought it was a lucky break. I didn't know then that the stories I loved were, reading would feel a lot less fun when they weren't just words on a screen.

My first night shift at the creepypasta grocery store didn't start like I expected. The place was smaller than I thought it would be, with cramped aisles and a flickering, open 24-7 sign outside. When I walked in, the air inside was stale, like it hadn't been aired out in years. It smelled faintly of old cardboard, and some of the air inside. something metallic. When I stepped inside, the store was empty, save for the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

There were no customers and oddly no other employees. The register sat unattended, and the shelves were stocked neatly, like no one untouched them in weeks. The break room was tucked in the back, past a hallway lined with storage lockers and a cracked mirror. Inside was as depressing as the, the rest of the store. Peeling wallpaper, a stained couch, and a coffee pot that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in decades. On the small table in the center of the room, I noticed a VHS tape,

its label scratched, but still legible. Training. Watch immediately, it read. I wasn't expecting much, but I found an old TV set sitting on a shelf in the corner. The VHS player below. The VHS player below, had dust on the buttons. I slid the tape in. The machine whining as it pulled the tape into place. The screen came to life with a hiss of static before an image appeared. The person on the tape looked off. Their face was frozen in an exaggerated smile, and their eyes didn't quite blink at the same time. Their movements were jerky, almost like a puppet on street. The rules were listed in rapid secession, the text appearing on the screen in bold letters, while the unnaturally cheerful voice explain them.

Rule number one, do not acknowledge the black-eyed children. Ignore them, no matter how much they beg to enter the store. Rule number two, avoid aisle four completely. If a cleanup is announced there, do not engage. investigate. Rule number three, never look at the faceless man near the back rooms. Keep your eyes down if you must pass by. Number four, serve the man with melting skin his cigarettes. Do so silently and wait for him to leave. And rule number five, always make a cup of coffee for Joe before your shift ends. Leave it in the break room. Skipping this step is not.

an option. The tape ended abruptly after the final rule, the screen returning to static. The machine ejected the tape with a loud click as though it was eager to be rid of it. I sat for a moment, staring at a blank TV. I told myself it was a joke, but deep down I did feel strange. Eventually I stood up, brushing the dust from my pants. I decided to do a quick walk-through of the store. Maybe seeing the shelves and aisles up close would make everything feel normal again. Wasn't a big place. I could cover the whole thing in maybe ten minutes. As I walked past the aisles, I counted them. Isle one, two, three. My pace slowed as I approached the middle of the store, where aisle four should have been. But there was nothing. Just a blank wall

between Isles 3 and 5. I stopped, staring at the empty space. The wall was bare, except for a faint outline of what might have been a doorway, long since plastered over. The rules had said to avoid Isle 4, but there wasn't anything to avoid. Not anymore. Now, patrolling the aisles was a way to distract myself, but the growing tension in my chest refused to stop. The store was quiet, except for the buzzing lights overhead and the sound of my shoes on the tile floor. I tried to focus on anything normal, the stuff on the shelves

that displays, but I couldn't shake the feeling that time was moving slower than it should have been. During a slow part of my shift, I decided to clean up the break room. The room was small and bare, an old couch, coffee pot, and a row of lockers. Most were empty, but one caught my attention. Its door was locked, the rested padlock hanging loosely. Curious? I tested the lock. It wasn't sturdy, and with a bit of force, I managed to pop it open. Inside was a uniform like mine, though way older. The fabric was faded and torn in places, and the name tag attached to it had been scratched out, leaving behind faint marks where the name used to be. Behind the uniform, I found a book.

The cover was stained and warped, probably from an old coffee spill. The title was barely readable, but it seemed to be about local monsters or legends. I picked it up carefully, and I opened it. The pages were brittle, and men. many were missing. The ones that were still intact had strange details written on them. The descriptions matched some of the things I'd heard in the rules. Some entries were redacted with names and places scribbled out or smeared with ink. One section described creatures that wore human faces but didn't move naturally. Another described something tall and faceless, sang,

It doesn't move while you're watching. It waits. Whoever owned the book had been keeping notes. Words were circled, underlined, and scribbled in the margins, as if they'd been trying to figure something out. I placed the book back in the locker, and I shut the door. And then I heard it. A faint knock on the glass storefront. I stopped mid-step. The sound was soft, but louder.

enough to grab my attention. Slowly, I stepped out of the break room and walked back to the entrance where the sliding doors were. Two figures stood outside the glass. They were children, maybe seven or eight years old, a boy and a girl. Their clothing looked simple and oddly out of place, like it belonged from another time. They stood still, staring right at the bed. may. They showed no emotion. Their eyes were pitch black. There were no whites or pupils,

just empty voids that seemed to swallow the light. The boy raised a hand and knocked again, this time more insistent. The girl's lips moved next, forming words I couldn't hear clearly but didn't need to. Their expressions didn't change, but their intent was unmistakable. They were begging to be let inside. I remember the first rule on the tape. Do not acknowledge the black-eyed children. The boy pressed his hands flat against the glass, holding his empty stare, as if he knew I could see him. And for the next hour, they stayed.

They didn't leave, didn't look away, they didn't blink. They alternated between moments of begging. and total silence, their presence feeling heavier with every passing second. When the clock on the wall struck 2 a.m., they stopped. And without a sound, they turned and walked away into the darkness beyond the parking lot. I didn't move until I was certain they were gone. I forced myself to leave the front of the store. The darkened glass and the empty parking lot beyond felt,

too exposed, as if standing there too long might bring them back. My legs were unsteady, but I needed something to do. Anything to keep my mind from that. The restocking cart was by the center aisle, left half filled with canned goods. It was a boring task, something repetitive and grounding. I grabbed the can of tomato soup and turned to the shelf, counting the rows to find the right spot. My hands weren't steady. The metal edges of the can pressed hard into my fingers as I placed it on the shelf. Well, I hope someone's looking out for them. Whatever they are,

my son. It wasn't the right thing to think. The rules had been clear and I'd followed him, but the thought lingered anyway. They had looked human as wrong as they were. I'd heard stories before, know. They were scattered across the internet, buried in forums and the stranger corners of social media. They always followed the same pattern. Places open late, employees working overnight shifts, and children at the door with eyes that weren't right. Fast food workers described seeing them standing at the drive-thru window, hands pressed against the glass. Some gas station attendants reported faint tapping on the locked doors always after midnight. And there were other patterns, too.

The children never forced their way in. They never reacted to being ignored or refused. They stayed until something unseen decided they were done. Theories about them were endless. You've heard the stories. Urban legends, paranormal entities, or something worse, that no one had a name for. But for every theory,

there was someone who swore it happened to them. I thought about the black-eyed children I'd seen outside the store. They fit the accounts perfectly. It wasn't just me. I wondered how many people had ignored the rules and what might have happened to them. And that thought did not sit well with me.

After restocking the shelves, I pushed the empty cart back towards the rear of the store. The area was quieter, with only the low hum of the cooler units breaking the silence. As I neared the back rooms, something caught my eye, a faint movement in the dim light at the far end of the hallway. Standing outside the doorway to the back rooms was a tall figure. It's outlined stark against the glow of the broken bulb overhead. It didn't move, and the longer I stared, the clearer its features, or lack thereof, became.

It had no face, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, as though someone had erased its identity completely. I remember the rule. Never look at the faceless man near the back rooms. I forced my eyes away, looking at the floor. I turned the cart sharply, redirecting myself toward the Middle Isles. The rule was clear. Don't acknowledge it. Don't interact.

Even as I walked away, I could feel him watching me. The stories about the faceless man had always been harder to believe, but the details were as consistent as the accounts of the children. I'd read about him before. Old reports from workers, old forum-pocket. and the occasional police file that didn't lead anywhere. A figure always described as extremely tall, dressed in a plain black suit,

and seen standing near back rooms or open doorways. People who talked to the faceless man alone often disappeared, their belongings would be left behind. Phones, wallets, keys, but never a trace of the person themselves. The police didn't have much to go on, and the cases were usually filed under missing persons without any further investigation. The story stayed in the dark corners of the Internet, where they blended with urban legends and conspiracy theories. The theories about him varied. Some said he was an omen, appearing before something terrible happened.

Others thought he was a predator, choosing victims at random. There were claims he would appear in multiple places at once as though he wasn't tied to a single location. The intercom crackled to life suddenly, shattering the stillness of the store. Clean up on aisle for... The voice was distorted, mechanical, like it was barely making it through the worn-out speakers overhead. The thing was... aisle four did not exist. I stayed where I was, standing motionless near the register. The training tape had been clear about this rule. Ignore any announcement about aisle four.

I forced myself to ignore it. Instead, I turned to the coffee maker behind the register. My hands were steady as I grabbed a mug and scooped coffee grounds into it. The intercom continued. The same words looping over and over. I focused on the sound of the coffee dripping into the pot, the soft hiss of steam, the only thing keeping me grounded. When the pot finished,

I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter, holding the warm mug in both hands. The announcement stopped suddenly, leaving the store in complete silence. I stayed where I was, sipping the coffee slowly. I didn't look toward the aisles. I didn't move.

The quiet felt heavy, but I waited it out. I thought about why I'd taken this job in the first place. College was bleeding me dry, man, and with my parents already stretched thin, I needed every paycheck I could get. A summer job at a grocery store seemed harmless enough when I applied. I wondered how many other people, had worked this shift before me. Did they feel the same crawling fear in their chest? What did they do?

Block it out? Or did it eat away at them little by little? I looked down at the mug in my hands, realizing I'd been gripping it too tightly. The rules were clear, and following them was the only way to get through the night. Still, I was nervous. The sound of the first. The sound of footsteps pulled me out of my thought. Slow and wet. They slapped against the tile floor, growing louder as they approached the counter. I looked up and froze. A man stood there. His skin hung loosely from his frame, sagging like it was too heavy for his body to hold. The training tape came back to me. The rule as clear as the first time I'd heard it.

Serve the man with melting skin his cigarettes. Do not speak. I reached behind me, hands trembling, as I searched blindly for the shelf of cigarette packs. My fingers brushed against one, and I grabbed it, not daring to take my eyes off him. I placed the pack. on the counter, careful to move slowly. He didn't move at first, and then with a sickening,

gurgling sound, he raised a hand. His fingers were long and bent out of shape, and they left streaks of something dark on the counter as they slid over the cigarettes. The smell hit me as I turned to leave, thick and sour. I held them. my breath, waiting for him to disappear into the shadows beyond the store. The door didn't open. There was no sound of it sliding on its tracks. When I looked up, the man was gone. I stayed rooted in place, the lingering smell, making it hard to breathe. The pack I had handed him was gone, but the faint smear on the counter was proof he'd been there. And there was something familiar about the man.

His presence had sparked a memory, a connection to stories I'd read late at night, accounts of creatures that weren't human, but that wanted to be. I'd read about them before, too. One report stood out of my mind. A convenience store clerk in Nevada had talked about a man who came in every night around the same time. He looked normal at first, but as the days went on, the clerk noticed his skin did not look real. The man never bought anything. He just stood by the counter, staring.

And one night that clerk disappeared. At least. Well, at least that was how the story went. But as for what actually happened to the clerk, well, your guess is as good as mine. The shift was nearly over. When I heard someone enter through the front doors, my muscles tensed out of habit, but the figure that stepped inside wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Maggie, my manager, walked in with a kind of calm confidence that didn't match the unsettling air of the store. She waved briefly and made her way toward me. Her presence felt jarring after hours of silence,

But it was a relief to see someone normal again. Maggie dropped her bag behind the counter and leaned on the edge, brushing back her short, dark hair. After asking how my shift had gone, she listened as I described the events of the night. Her reaction was measured, almost sympathetic, as if she'd expected it. For a moment, she said nothing more,

and then began speaking quietly. her tone serious. Maggie explained that the building hadn't always been a grocery store. Years before the grocery store stood on this ground, the building was a theater. Its final night was marked by an event that no one could explain and that few dared to speak about afterward. It was a midnight showing. One of the last efforts by Mr. Larkin to draw an audience to his struggling business, The feature was a film titled The Smiling Ones, a low-budget production that never appeared in any official listings.

The showing attracted only a handful of people, local horror enthusiasts, and some of the theater's regular staff. As the reels turned, something went wrong. A fire broke out near the back of the auditorium, the flame spreading faster than should have been possible. Investigators later found no evidence of faulty wiring or flammable materials where the blaze began. The fire spread quickly, consuming the room in minutes. The exits became impassable. Witnesses outside said they heard muffled laughter mixed with screams. The two sounds blending together.

Those inside had no chance of escape. The fire department arrived quickly, but their equipment failed. The flames burned cold. A phenomenon the firefighters couldn't explain. Water sprayed toward the building, never made contact. It evaporated midair. And the team could only watch as the theater collapsed in on itself, leaving behind nothing but scorched debris.

By morning, the fire had burned itself out, leaving the building's outer walls mostly intact, and no bodies were ever recovered. The patrons and staff were simply gone as if they'd been erased along with the rest of the theater. The tragedy was quickly hushed up. No memorials were held, no official inquiries followed. The property remained abandoned for years until a was quietly sold and repurposed into the grocery store. Those who had witnessed the fire or claimed to have seen the smiling ones moved away or disappeared soon after. Years after the fire, the remains of the old theater were sold to a company nobody had ever heard of. There were no public records of the sale, and the name on the paperwork didn't match any real businesses.

people thought the lot would stay empty like it had for years. But one day the grocery store was just there. Nobody saw any construction crews or equipment, and nobody remembered seeing the building being worked on. It was like the store had appeared overnight, fully built, stocked, and ready for customers. Things got even stranger, when people who had moved out of town came back.

They didn't remember the grocery store at all. It wasn't on old maps, and they said they never saw it when they used to live in the area. But for the locals, it had always been part of the town, like it had always been there. Nobody talked about the store open like people shop there, but they didn't ask questions. It was treated as another person,

place to buy food, but everyone seemed to know that something wasn't quite right. Most employees didn't last long. Some quit after only a few days, and others, well, they just stopped showing up. Their lockers and time cards were left behind, like they'd vanished. The workers who stayed never explained much about the job. They followed the rules, kept quiet, it didn't talk about what happened during their shifts. The store looked normal to anyone passing by, but it was clear that whatever happened in the old theater hadn't stayed buried. Whether the grocery store was meant to keep it hidden or to feed it,

nobody knew, and nobody wanted to find out. Decades ago, long before the current set of rules was printed and laminated, A handwritten sheet of paper was found in the brick room. The edges were frayed, and the ink had faded in spots, but it was still legible. The note was pinned to the wall with a rusty nail, as if it had been meant to stay there forever. The handwriting was uneven, rushed, like it had been written under stress. The rules listed were nearly identical to those followed by employees today. But there were small cryptic annotations alongside some of them.

They love attention. Don't give it to them. Coffee keeps them calm. I-O-4 is not for us. Stay away. The name Joe was scrolled at the bottom of the sheet, as if it were both a signature and a warning. No one knows exactly who Joe was,

but the story passed down among employees suggested he might have been the store's first worker or maybe someone connected to the building's dark past. Some claimed that Joe was one of the theater patrons who had died in the fire. Others believed he was a drifter who'd been hired when the store first opened. Whoever he was, the rules he left behind became the only barrier between employees and the strange forces tied to the building. The store's lingering presence seemed to respect the rules, even if no one understood why. Over time, employees began to suspect that Joe never truly left.

The ritual of making coffee at the end of every shift became more than a rule. It felt like a gesture of gratitude to someone unseen. Those who followed the rule, rule said their shifts passed without incident. Those who didn't often vanished before anyone could ask what went wrong. The rule about Isle 4 is the one employees follow the most carefully. Those who break it even by accident don't always come back. The ones who do are never the same. They don't explain much, and they act like they're somewhere else. Rumors say Isle

four lines up with a theater's old screening room, the place where the smiling ones played its final show. Even though the aisle isn't real, some workers say they've ended up there anyway. The shelves disappear, and the space turns into a dark hallway that stretches on forever. Black and white images flash on the walls like an old movie playing on a projector. The images are strange and unsight. people with no faces moving in stiff, awkward ways, children with huge smiles that don't look natural and dark shapes floating in the background. The movie never stops. It plays over and over. The images getting more warped and messed up every time. In the background, you can hear

laughter and screams, but the sounds are broken and scratchy. Like, they've been played too many times. People who end up in Isle 4 say it feels like something is watching them. The longer they stay, the stronger the feeling gets, like eyes around them from every direction. Most say they feel an overwhelming need to look behind them. The few who give in say the shadows from the film come off the walls, reaching for them. Nobody explains how they get out, and most refuse to come back to the store after it happens. For them, the rule about Isle 4 isn't just a warning. It's the only thing keeping them safe. Whatever is there doesn't follow the same rules as the rest of the store, and it doesn't

forget about anyone who steps into its space. As I tried to process what I learned about Isle 4, Maggie began to speak again. She leaned against the counter. Her expression unreadable as she looked toward the rows of aisles. She explained what some employees had come to believe over the years. The store wasn't just a place to work. It was something else entirely, something that didn't follow the rules of the world outside. One theory was that the store was a trap, a place designed to catch wandering souls, whatever caused the fire in the theater.

may have left behind more than flames, it might have created a pocket of reality where lost things gathered. People who stepped inside were drawn into its rules and became part of its system, unable to leave until it allowed them to. Whatever the store was,

it didn't just trap people. It changed them. The thought nodded may, as Maggie's words lingered. She'd said that some things the stores an experiment. Others believe it's a prison or a feeding ground. Her cryptic warning had felt abstract until I started noticing the subtle changes around me. My shifts stretched longer than they should, even though the clock didn't reflect it. And Joe, the invisible presence

I left coffee for nightly, became harder to dismiss as just another quirky rule. That night, The intercom blared as soon as Maggie left me alone. Clean up on aisle four. This time the lights flickered, and the air grew colder. I gripped the counter for balance my mind racing. The voice continued. Clean up on aisle four. You know where to go.

Except there was no aisle four. Everybody knew that. I glanced toward the middle of the store and for the first time I saw it. The faint outline of an aisle that shouldn't exist. A shadowy gap between Isle 3 and Isle 5 shimmered unnaturally. The edges flickering like static on an old TV. I didn't move at first. The rules were clear, don't acknowledge Isle 4, but the air shifted.

And I felt it pulling me. The tug wasn't physical, but it was strong, like gravity itself wanted me to step forward. And I knew something terrible was about to happen. I glanced at the break room door, Joe's coffee. I somehow knew it was my only hope. I bolted for the back, every step feeling like I was running through quicksand, behind me the intercom voice shifted to something worse laughter deep broken laughter that echoed like static in my ears when i reached the break room the coffee pot was cold i hadn't made the coffee yet the laughter grew louder

followed by footsteps wet dragging and impossibly slow the faceless mind man. I grabbed the coffee pot with trembling hands, fumbling to fill it. The rules demanded precision, but my heart was pounding. I hit the brew button and turned to face the break room table, waiting for the pot to finish dripping. But the dragging footsteps stopped just outside the break room door. A shadow stretched beneath the crack. It didn't move. My back pressed against the counter willing the coffee machine to finish. Joe, whoever you are, man, I need help, I said. The shadow shifted, and the breakroom door creaked open.

The faceless man stood there, impossibly tall, his suit soaked with some dark fluid. The space around him warped, bending reality itself. I couldn't look at him. The rule said not to. My eyes dropped to the floor as I focused on the soft gurgle of the coffee pot. Don't look, don't look, I muttered to myself. And then I heard the chair scrape against the floor.

Not the door. The chair. My eyes flick toward the breakroom table, and I froze. The chair had shifted like someone in. visible was sitting down. I felt it then. A cold, still presence behind me. The machine beat.

The coffee was done. I poured it carefully into the chipped mug. My hands shaking so bad, I almost spilled it, setting the mug on the table. I forced my voice to be steady. It's ready. I whispered. The faceless man didn't move.

The presence behind me didn't disappear. I turned to leave the break room, my legs weak and trembling. As I crossed the threshold, the laughter on the intercom stopped. The dragging footsteps faded. I thought it was over. But when I stepped back into the main store, the shimmering gap between aisles three, and five had grown, the space beyond it. Wasn't a blank wall anymore. It was an endless hallway,

dark and twisting, with faint shapes flickering. My heart sank. Something was coming through. I backed away and the gap widened, the floor cracking beneath it. I ran to the register, slamming my hand on the emergency alarm button. Nothing happened. The store ignored it, as if it was laughing at my attempt to fight back. Figures moved closer. They didn't run, but they didn't need to. Their presence pulled at me.

I stumbled, nearly falling. And then I heard it. The faint creak of a chair behind me back in the break room. I didn't have time to think. I bolted toward the sound, slamming the door behind me. The coffee mug was empty, but the chair was pushed neatly back under the table. Steam still barely rose from the cup, as if whoever, or whatever Joe was, had just finished drinking. I heard a voice then.

It echoed in the room around me. The air in the break room shifted. Something cold brushed past May, unseen, moving toward the door. The dragging footsteps resumed, but this time they weren't coming from May. Through the narrow break room window, I saw the shadows stop in their tracks. The faceless man turned, his featureless head tilting toward the empty air, as if acknowledging something greater. One by one, the figures ran back into the endless hallway.

The gap between the aisles flickered, then vanished, leaving only a blank wall, and the store fell silent. Maggie arrived as usual at the end of my shift. She glanced at the breakroom table, saw the empty mug, and gave a small nod of approval. Huh. He survived. Joe must like you, she said. She told me that as long as I kept making that coffee, the way I had been, and as long as I kept being respectful to Joe, he'd protect me. He'd keep me safe. Anyway, I've been here for a while now, and I can't say it's all that bad. Joe and I play games sometimes.

Checkers, chess, tic-tac-tow. He never says anything, but I get the feeling he enjoys the company. Tadu too. Though we've never had an official conversation, I can't help but feel like we're friends. And I know this sounds crazy. But I think I might stay.